


Vagabonding

by Z_Publicizes



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-09-30 22:33:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10173905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Z_Publicizes/pseuds/Z_Publicizes
Summary: He says again - We're lost, Dean.





	

I swear, I've seen that sign before.  
Sam counts white lines on the highway,  
counts the arms of Joshua trees, open in prophetic prayer.  
He says again - We're lost, Dean.

Quarter past noon, on the verge of spiralling hopelessly  
across the raw Southwest desert, crossing miles and miles of unending heat.  
Direction unspooling with no urgency for once  
to reel them towards an unavoidable destination.

They drive, bodies bone-dry and still bleeding sweat,  
ragged at every corner, men to match the landscape.  
Everything is languid and worn through, like something made of  
handkerchief-fine flannel, old boots allowing a direct impression of ground to heels,  
even at high speed, electric guitar blurring smooth into the highway lines,  
road straight as a gunshot, white sun shining, unshadowed by billboard, butte, mesa, cloud.

Not lost, Dean says again, in a backhanded brush against faith, says they're roaming,  
wandering, drifting, roving, vagabonding. The stuff of legend, American.  
Sam snorts, explosive in that quiet catch while the tape turns B-side.

It goes on: the same white sun, white lines, the same stretch of highway. Time ticks. Hours.  
Sam says again - We're lost - languid, like it doesn't matter, much.  
Still: he pops the glovebox, reaches in for the map. He'll be lost but not blind.

Sam's counting Joshua trees, recounting the story,  
of the prophet imploring the sun and moon to stand still,  
at Gideon and the valley of Aijalon.  
At a crossroads Dean slows down, stops.  
Locks eyes with the rearview, with the passenger side.  
Finds himself in his own eyes, his brothers.  
No great epiphany signposts a road because none ever does,  
while running from anything and towards it all at once.  
He makes the same turn. They keep driving.


End file.
